


It's Not the Fall

by DNAchemLia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Dead character is still in the story, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-08-15 03:24:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8040637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DNAchemLia/pseuds/DNAchemLia
Summary: Moriarty survives the confrontation on the roof of St. Bart’s and is on the run. John deals with the aftermath, and Sherlock is not about to let something so trivial as being dead interfere with the Work. AU ending for The Reichenbach Fall and beyond.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of their respective copyright holders. No infringement intended. The original characters and places mentioned are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to those living, dead, or undead is completely coincidental.

Chapter 1

"Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one _second_ that I am one of them."

Sherlock kept his gaze fixed on Moriarty, engaged in one last desperate attempt to win the dangerous game the man had been playing with him for months.

Moriarty stared back. "No. You're not."

Sherlock never flinched, never wavered. After a few brief moments, Moriarty's eyes widened.

"I see. You're not ordinary. No." He grinned. "You're me. You're _me_. Thank you, Sherlock Holmes. Thank you. Bless you." He held out his hand and after hesitating a few seconds, Sherlock slowly reached out and grasped it. The grin vanished. "As long as I'm alive you can save your friends. You've got a way out. Well, good luck with that."

Moriarty opened his mouth wide and reached for his gun. Sherlock realized what he was about to do and immediately grabbed for it. He tried to wrench it from Moriarty's grasp but the smaller man was much stronger than he appeared and he fought Sherlock for control of the weapon. Their desperate struggle brought them to the edge of the roof and Sherlock registered the pressure of the wall against his legs as Moriarty wrenched his wrist to the right in an attempt to break Sherlock's grip on the gun. He heard a woman scream far below but ignored it, his focus on keeping the other man from gaining the upper hand. A moment later he heard another cry, and as he recognized the voice his concentration wavered for a split second.

" _SHERLOCK!"_

That brief moment of inattention was all Moriarty needed to twist the gun in Sherlock's hands, and as he tried to regain his grip he felt the barrel of the gun dig into his chest. Suddenly there was an explosion of sound...and pain.

He stumbled backward, his body twisting in agony as he heard the voice again.

" _NO!"_

He succumbed to the force of gravity but this time there was nothing behind him to stop his descent.

He felt the odd sensation of his body falling through space, the wind rushing past his ears with an eerie whistling sound as consciousness faded. His last sensation was another explosion of pain before the world went completely dark.

XXX

John paid the cabbie and marched towards the entrance to St. Bart's, intent on storming the mortuary and giving Sherlock a piece of his mind. John suspected it was Sherlock who had orchestrated the call about Mrs. Hudson as a means of getting John out of the way while he dealt with Moriarty. John shook his head. Sherlock could be so damn thick at times. Didn't he know that John was just as willing to tackle their current nemesis as Sherlock himself? The lone wolf routine was getting old, and John intended to enlighten the other man on the matter as soon as he saw him.

As John passed the ambulance station he heard a woman scream. He immediately stopped and searched the area for the source of the sound and quickly found a young woman standing a short distance away, her gaze fixed on something far above the street level.

John looked up towards the roof and froze in shock. Two men were struggling near the edge and it didn't take long for John to recognize the one who appeared to be on the losing side of the battle.

"SHERLOCK!"

Before John could take another step towards the building he heard the familiar retort of a gunshot and Sherlock staggered backward, swaying at the edge of the precipice. In an instant John knew what was going to happen, and his heart clenched in his chest when he realized there was nothing he could do to stop it.

"NO!"

Sherlock's body tumbled over the short wall and as John watched in horror his friend fell towards the street below, landing with a sickening thud a few seconds later.

John barely registered the woman's second scream as he rushed towards the spot where Sherlock had fallen. He glanced up at the roof and caught a brief glimpse of Moriarty's face, twisted and flushed with anger. John didn't spare him a thought as he reached Sherlock and desperately grabbed his wrist to search for a pulse.

Nothing.

"No, no, no, come on mate, don't do this. Please, Sherlock, don't be dead. Please…" He tried again to find evidence of life, moving his other hand to the man's neck, and in doing so got a devastating look at the injury that had surely caused his heart to stop beating, if the gunshot wound in his chest hadn't accomplished it first.

"No, please, God, no…"

Finally, as more people rushed in to help he sat back and allowed his friend's limp hand to fall from his grasp as he watched the blood pool beneath the man's body, staining the sidewalk a deep crimson. A feeling of profound loss washed over him as he came to the clear, yet horrible conclusion.

Sherlock Holmes was dead.

TBC…


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

John ignored the activity around him, his attention focused solely on the man lying dead on the pavement. He barely heard the orders to move, to vacate what was now a crime scene and roughly shrugged off any hands that touched him in an effort to get him to follow those orders. Finally a familiar voice penetrated his misery and he glanced up at the grey-haired man standing over him, a rush of fury washing over him when he saw the expression in the man's dark brown eyes.

"What happened, John?"

John let out a soft huff of humorless laughter. "Moriarty."

He sensed Lestrade shift uncomfortably. "John, Moriarty isn't-"

"Oh, he's real. He's real, and he… He killed Sherlock. I _saw_ him."

"Where?" Another voice, one that caused another surge of fury broke in. He glared up at Sally Donovan and she flinched in response to the clear anger in his gaze.

"I'm telling you, I saw him. If you don't believe me, there was another witness. Ask _her._ "

Lestrade glanced at Donovan and tilted his head towards the building where a couple of officers and the woman John had seen earlier were waiting. She gave a quick nod and hurried off, briefly glancing over her shoulder at John as she departed. Lestrade crouched down next to John, wincing as he gave the body lying next to him a quick once-over.

"What happened?"

"I… Someone called and told me that Mrs. Hudson had been shot. We...Sherlock and I were in the mortuary waiting for…something that would help prove that Sherlock was right about Moriarty. I tried to get him to come with me, but he wouldn't and I… Anyway, I went back to our flat and Mrs. Hudson was fine. I thought… I thought Sherlock had arranged the call to get me out of the way so he could deal with Moriarty on his own." John huffed again and shook his head. "I was right about that. I took a cab back here and was going in to talk to Sherlock when I heard a woman scream. She was looking up at the roof, and… I saw Sherlock fighting with someone up there, near the edge. I heard a gunshot and...Sherlock fell. Moriarty was up there with him. He shot him, and…" John took a deep breath. "He's gone."

"John, we need… You need to let us handle this now. We'll take care of...him, I promise."

John laughed bitterly. " _Now_ you care?" He looked past Lestrade at Anderson, who was standing just inside the barrier the police had set up, along with two other forensic technicians. He met John's gaze and looked away, a hint of guilt in his expression.

"I'm sorry, but we need to do our job, and-"

"Well, I guess there's a first time for everything!" John staggered to his feet and glared at the detective inspector. "All those times where he helped you, all of those lives he saved, and you turned on him! Moriarity played you like that goddamned violin, and _you_ -" He turned to Donovan, who had rejoined them with an aura of guilt now surrounding her as well. "What was it? Jealousy? Revenge? You were pissed off that he could suss out your affair with a married man?" Anderson flinched as John's voice carried over to where he stood.

John turned back to Lestrade. "You knew him for years. You knew he'd never do something so evil as to kidnap children. He _saved_ them, for Christ's sake! And you thought he was just trying to make himself look more clever?"

"I didn't think that...not really."

"But you let those two convince you, didn't you? It had to be them. They've had it in for Sherlock ever since I've known him. They were just _waiting_ for a chance-"

"John, you need to calm down."

"Sod this. And screw _you_. All of you." He took one final glance at the body, a look of devastation crossing his features before the stony anger returned. He pivoted on on heel and started to march towards the street.

"Let me get an officer to take you home," Lestrade called, receiving a rude gesture in return as John made his way past the reporters that had gathered, ignoring their shouted questions. With a sigh Lestrade turned to Donovan. "Make sure he gets home safe, alright." She nodded and quickly called one of the patrolmen over, who listened to her brief orders and followed John as Anderson joined them. He crouched down next to the semi-supine form and moved the coat back with one gloved hand to reveal the bloody wound in its chest.

"Witness confirms what John said," Sally admitted softly. "She said the other man looked like 'the one who tried to steal the crown jewels'. Gave a pretty good description, too. It fits Moriarty… Richard Brook...whatever his name is." She stared at the body. "We screwed up, didn't we?"

"Yeah. We did. And we don't even have _him_ around to fix it this time."

"So what do we do?"

"Find Moriarty. And restore Sherlock's reputation." He sighed. "It's the least we can do."

"But it won't be enough. For John. Will it?"

"No. No, it won't."

XXX

John tried to hail a cab but the street around St. Bart's was packed with cars and onlookers, preventing any of the cabs from getting through. Finally he gave up and headed for the nearest tube station where he boarded the next train that would take him back to Baker Street. He noticed the officer following him but ignored him. He didn't need, didn't _want_ anything to do with the police right now.

Finally he reached his stop and headed up to the surface, pausing when he reached the street level. The task ahead of him weighed heavily on his mind as he slowly made his way to 221B. He wasn't looking forward to breaking the news to Mrs. Hudson, not at all. As much as she had complained about Sherlock's antics, John knew she cared for him deeply, and he in return had allowed his human side to surface in his concern for her.

John noticed a few people milling around the entrance and felt a renewal of the anger he had experienced at the scene when he realized they were reporters. _No better than vultures and jackals_ , he thought as he straightened his posture and strode towards the door to his flat, ignoring their shouted questions as soon as they noticed his approach. He roughly shouldered his way through the crowd, taking some grim satisfaction in the yelps of pain he caused in passing. He managed to reach the door and slipped inside, slamming it behind him and effectively cutting off the barrage of questions. Mrs. Hudson and the repairman were still at the base of the stairs, both looking up expectantly as he entered.

"Back again? What's going on, John? Did Sherlock get everything straightened out with the police?"

"Not exactly," he replied, unwilling to break the news to her in front of a stranger. "We need to talk."

"What's wrong? Is Sherlock in custody? Do we need to call Mycroft to get him out?"

"No, he's not in custody." He glanced at the repairman, who apparently decided to occupy himself with packing up his tools. "Mrs. Hudson...I'm so sorry to have to tell you this, but Sherlock…" He took a deep breath. "Sherlock is dead."

" _What?"_ she gasped, her hands moving to cover her mouth as she stared at him in horror. John carefully embraced her and she clung to him as the tears started to flow down her cheeks, soaking his shirt. He noticed the repairman silently move towards the front door and he quickly guided Mrs. Hudson into her flat before the door opened. He heard the shouts of reporters die out quickly as the repairman slipped through the opening and closed the door behind him.

John managed to get Mrs. Hudson seated at her kitchen table and put the kettle on to make tea, the simple task helping him focus his energy on comforting the woman while keeping his mind from lingering on his own pain.

"What happened?" she sobbed as he handed her a kitchen towel which she used to blot her tears.

"Moriarty shot him," John replied, intentionally leaving out the rest of the horrible scene he had witnessed.

"Have they caught him? They're going to catch him, right?"

The bitter anger he had felt when the police arrived on the scene resurfaced and he clenched his jaw to keep from shouting at her. "That's their job."

"High time they did it, then!" she snapped. "How many times did _he_ do it for them, and they...treated him like some sort of criminal! It's not right!"

"No. It's not."

Her anger faded and she looked up at him with tear-laden eyes. "He...he's really dead?" John nodded. "Oh, God…" She buried her face in her hands and John forced himself to place a comforting hand on her shoulder. She latched onto it and pulled him in close, her tears wetting his shirt again.

John held her, taking some small comfort in the fact that he was helping her in some way, which paled in the face of how badly he had failed his best friend. His final words to Sherlock rang through his mind and the guilt that accompanied the realization of what he had done-and failed to do-threatened to overwhelm him. He knew that he had one purpose now, one thing upon which to focus all of his energy: find Moriarty, and make him pay.

XXX

The fog that had seemed to cloud his mind for an eternity lifted and he found himself standing in front of St. Bart's hospital, the fading light telling him the day had passed into the twilight hour. He tried to remember how he had come to be standing here but the memories refused to surface. His last recollection placed him six stories above where he now stood, on the roof of the hospital. A few more moments of searching and he remembered he had gone up there to confront Moriarty, to thwart his plans…

A quick scan of the area showed the absence of his nemesis and he tried once again to remember what had happened during that confrontation. He remembered the gun, and trying to stop Moriarty from using it on himself. He remembered the fight that had propelled him to the edge of the roof, and then...nothing.

With a sigh he scanned the area again, a flutter of crime scene tape in the soft breeze catching his attention and he moved towards it. He observed further evidence of the forensic team's presence, as well as multiple officers and police cars. What had happened? Had they finally captured Moriarty? And if so, _why_ couldn't he remember it? He studied the tape again, deduced the direction in which it had been unrolled, and moved towards the area that had been cordoned off. He noticed the tell-tale signs of blood that had been diluted by a light rainfall and bent to closely examine the area. Someone had impacted the pavement here and the blood had come from a shattered cranium, clearly indicated by the minute traces of grey matter and dark, slightly curly hairs clinging to the sidewalk.

He looked up, quickly calculated the distance the person must have fallen, and winced slightly. The poor sap had had time to be aware that he was about to die, unless of course he was already dead when he hit. He checked the blood spatter again, huffing in annoyance when he could not make that determination. If this person had been alive when he landed it had been only barely. The pattern had not spread quite enough to reflect a rapid heartbeat, something one would expect when facing imminent demise with full awareness.

Following the most likely position of the person when they landed, he crouched down and noticed some dark wool fibers, likely from a coat. An expensive one. He spied a few lighter fibers, navy blue, probably cashmere, and a few combed cotton fibers from a pair of inexpensive trousers. The incongruency intrigued him, leading him to believe there was another person present on the scene, perhaps someone what had tried to help the unfortunate victim. He'd been unsuccessful, of course. The lack of fibers from emergency personnel uniforms, as will as the obscured marks of Tyvek-covered shoes told him the only ones who had tended the body had been dealing with the deceased. He recognized the faint prints of Lestrade's and Donovan's shoes as well, and…

He peered closely at the faint marks near the center of the body's position. Loafers, well worn. The tips compressed by someone kneeling next to the body. He reached into his coat pocket for his magnifying glass and was surprised to find it missing. He hissed in annoyance and leaned closer, tracing the contours with his gaze. Suddenly he straightened, surprise flashing across his face when he recognized the tread and deduced its owner.

_John…_

Why had John been here, kneeling next to the victim? The cotton trouser fibers were clearly his, but who…

He slowly looked down at the blue scarf slung around his neck. Navy blue. Cashmere. His gaze traveled to the coat he wore. Wool. Dark. Expensive. He slowly raised a hand and ran it through his hair. Dark. Curly. The cranium beneath his hand was thankfully intact, but…

He reached down to touch the sidewalk and let out a short cry of surprise as his fingertips sank into the pavement with no resistance. He jerked his hand back and felt nothing, as if the pavement hadn't been there at all. He repeated the action with the same result and slowly straightened his body, peering down at his shoes which were clearly resting on the surface. He did a little hop and watched as they came to rest on the ground again.

After a few moments of staring at his feet his raised his head and looked around, blinking. Had Moriarty slipped him something? Some sort of hallucinogen? Clearly he needed to find a mirror to check the state of his pupils. He strode towards one of the cars parked nearby and leaned down to gaze in the side mirror.

He saw nothing but the street behind him, reflected in the mirror's surface.

He waved a hand in front of the glass but registered no movement. Finally he tried to fog the mirror with his breath, leaning and opening his mouth wide before emptying his lungs on the glass. He leaned back slightly and scanned the mirror for signs of condensation, but the reflection was clear. He'd had no effect on it.

After a quick look around he spied a young woman in hospital garb leaning against the building. He walked over to her and gave her his most charming smile while fighting the feeling of unease that was starting to creep into his mind.

"Good evening. I was wondering if you could help me. It seems my…" She didn't even turn in in his direction. He waved a hand in front of her face, coming dangerously close to smacking her nose. She didn't even blink.

Clamping down on the first wave of genuine fear he'd felt since the Baskerville case, he strode towards the hospital entrance and grasped at the handle, only to see his hand pass straight through. He noticed an older man approaching the door from the inside and desperately tried to get the man's attention but again he was ignored. The man opened the door and he managed to slip through in the other direction before he ran towards the mortuary, hoping to find a familiar face, or at least someone who would acknowledge his existence.

A few moments later he reached the hallway and stopped in shock as he took in the scene in front of him. Molly was standing outside the mortuary, leaning on Lestrade, who had his arms wrapped around her shaking, sobbing form. He slowly approached, listening to the sounds of her anguish as his own started to take hold.

"Molly?" She didn't even flinch. "Greg?" He hoped the use of the man's real name would get his attention, but Lestrade ignored him, clearly focused on consoling the pathologist. He watched them for another minute before turning and slowly walking back towards the entrance, his situation becoming perfectly, horribly clear.

He, Sherlock Holmes, was no longer among the living.

And yet he was still here, in London, able to see what was going on around him but unable to interact with others. He had heard enough tales, stories he had waved off with dismissal fueled by a scientific mindset, of those who had passed on still being able to communicate with the living. His current situation now made it clear he shouldn't have been too quick to dismiss such an idea, although his limited experience has shown it was not as common, or as easy as one would be led to believe. Surely, somewhere in this city of 8.3 million people, he would be able to find _someone_ with whom he _could_ communicate.

Sherlock managed a weak smile. He had an idea, no, a _hope_ , of where one of those people might be.

TBC...


	3. Chapter 3

It was several hours later when John left Mrs. Hudson and made the climb up to his flat. He reached the top of the stairs and paused, not completely surprised to find that the space wasn’t empty. A familiar figure was crouched in front of the bookcase, carefully scanning through the titles and stopping every so often to pull something from the shelf and drop it in a box at his feet.

“What are you doing?”

The man turned to face him, his face carefully blank. “John.”

“Mycroft. Why are you here?”

“Making sure nothing of importance in this flat falls into the wrong hands.”

“Falls into the wrong… Damn it, Mycroft, your brother is  _ dead! _ Don’t you even care?”

There was a brief flicker of emotion in Mycroft’s eyes before he quickly regained control. “My brother was one man. My concern is for the nation, as it always has been.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “This is about that damn code, isn’t it? You sent him after it. You had him confront that bastard because you thought he could get it when  _ you _ couldn’t. You sent him up on that roof, and--”

“He died because he was trying to save you.”

_ “What?” _

Mycroft pulled a small recorder out of his pocket and tossed it to John, who caught it deftly. 

“What’s this?”

“Moriarty’s confession.” Mycroft sighed. “The code was a bluff. His target was my brother, who fell right into his trap, but at least Sherlock had the wherewithal to record their conversation.” He gave John an unkind smile. “Go on, listen. It’s rather enlightening.”

John stared at the device but didn’t turn it on. “What do you mean, he died trying to save me?”

“Listen to the tape.”

John slipped the recorder into his pocket and glared at Mycroft, who met his gaze without flinching. After several moments he sighed again.

“I’m almost done here. The rent’s been paid for the next six months. That should give you plenty of time to...determine your next course of action.”

“I think you already know my next course of action, and I don’t need your charity.”

“It’s not  _ my _ charity, Dr. Watson. My brother suspected he wouldn’t live through the encounter atop St. Bart’s. He arranged it without my contribution...although I would have been happy to assist.”

“Why?”

Mycroft just gave him one of those annoying smiles and resumed his perusal of the bookcase. John watched until he finished, lifted the box and walked out of the flat without another word. John headed for his chair and flopped into before he withdrew the recorder from his pocket. He felt a slight chill as he stared at it and got up to go to the kitchen. After setting the kettle to boil and retrieving the teapot from the dish drainer, he returned to his chair and stared at the device again as the chill settled over him once more.

He didn’t move until he heard the whistle of the kettle and got up to fix a pot of tea, which he set on the tea tray and carried it into the main room.  Once he finally had a prepared cup in hand, he leaned back and pressed the play button on the recorder.

_ “Richard Brook.” _

John blinked as his eyes started to sting when he heard that rich baritone voice, one he thought he’d never hear again. A moment later his eyes narrowed in anger as he heard another voice reply.

_ “Nobody seems to get the joke, but you do.” _

_ “Of course.” _

_ “Attaboy.” _

_ “Rich Brook in German is Reichen Bach – the case that made my name. “ _

_ “Just tryin’ to have some fun… Good. You got that too.” _

_ “Beats like digits. Every beat is a one; every rest is a zero. Binary code. That’s why all those assassins tried to save my life. It was hidden on me; hidden inside my head – a few simple lines of computer code that can break into any system.” _

_ “I told all my clients: last one to Sherlock is a sissy.”  _

_ “Yes, but now that it’s up here, I can use it to alter all the records. I can kill Rich Brook and bring back Jim Moriarty.”  _

_ “No, no, no, no, no, this is too easy. This is too easy. There is no key, DOOFUS! Those digits are meaningless. They’re utterly meaningless. You don’t really think a couple of lines of computer code are gonna crash the world around our ears? I’m disappointed. I’m disappointed in you, ordinary Sherlock.”  _

_ “But the rhythm …” _

_ “Partita number one. Thank you, Johann Sebastian Bach.”  _

_ “But then how did …”  _

_ “Then how did I break into the Bank, to the Tower, to the Prison? Daylight robbery. All it takes is some willing participants. I knew you’d fall for it. That’s your weakness – you always want everything to be clever. Now, shall we finish the game? One final act. Glad you chose a tall building – nice way to do it.” _

_ “Do it? Do – do what? Yes, of course. My suicide.” _

“You bastard,” John muttered as he heard the resignation in Sherlock’s voice, and shivered again as the temperature in the room seemed to drop.

_ “‘Genius detective proved to be a fraud.’ I read it in the paper, so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairytales. And pretty Grimm ones too.”  _

_ “I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity.” _

_ “Oh, just kill yourself. It’s a lot less effort. Go on. For me. Pleeeeeease?”  _

John heard sounds of a struggle and when he heard Sherlock’s voice again it sounded horrified.

_ “You’re insane.”  _

_ “You’re just getting that now?” _ More sounds of a struggle, followed by a soft cry of triumph. John’s blood ran cold when he heard Moriarty’s next statement.  _ “Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive. Your friends will die if you don’t.”  _

_ “John.” _

_ “Not just John.” _ Moriarty’s voice dropped to a whisper.  _ “Everyone.” _

_ “Mrs Hudson.”  _

_ “Everyone.” _

_ “Lestrade.”  _

_ “Three bullets; three gunmen; three victims. There’s no stopping them now. Unless my people see you jump.”  _ Several moments of harsh, ragged breathing, before Moriarty spoke again in a mocking tone. _ “You can have me arrested; you can torture me; you can do anything you like with me; but nothing’s gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die ... unless …” _

_ “Unless I kill myself – complete your story.”  _

_ “You’ve gotta admit that’s sexier.” _

_ “And I die in disgrace.” _

“Oh, Sherlock…” John scrubbed his face furiously as a tear slipped down his cheek.

_ “Of course. That’s the point of this. Oh, you’ve got an audience now. Off you pop. Go on. I told you how this ends. Your death is the only thing that’s gonna call off the killers. I’m certainly not gonna do it.  _

_ “Would you give me ... one moment, please; one moment of privacy? Please?”  _

_ “Of course.” _

John started to turn off the recorder and froze when, to his great surprise, he heard Sherlock start to laugh, followed by a surprised exclamation from Moriarty.

_ “What? What is it? What did I miss?”  _

_ “‘You’re not going to do it.’ So the killers can be called off, then – there’s a recall code or a word or a number. I don’t have to die …”  _ Sherlock’s voice took on a mocking tone of its own  _ “... if I’ve got you.” _

_ “Oh! You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?” _

Sherlock’s voice turned chillingly serious.  _ “Yes. So do you.” _

_ “Sherlock, your big brother and all the King’s horses couldn’t make me do a thing I didn’t want to.”  _

_ “Yes, but I’m not my brother, remember? I am you – prepared to do anything; prepared to burn; prepared to do what ordinary people won’t do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you.”  _

_ “Naah. You talk big. Naah. You’re ordinary. You’re ordinary – you’re on the side of the angels.” _

The deadly tone of Sherlock’s voice deepened.  _ “Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don’t think for one second that I am one of them.” _

There was a long pause before Moriarty’s voice returned, sounding almost awed.  _ “No, you’re not… I see. You’re not ordinary. No. You’re me.” _ His voice became joyful.  _ “You’re me! Thank you! Sherlock Holmes. Thank you. Bless you.” _ The joy disappeared.  _ “As long as I’m alive, you can save your friends; you’ve got a way out. Well, good luck with that.” _

There was a brief moment of silence, followed by scuffling sounds. John heard a faint scream, followed soon after by the distant sound of his own voice.

_ “SHERLOCK!” _

The sudden, extremely loud retort of a gunshot sent John’s heart racing in his chest.

_ “NO!” _

Another moment of silence which was broken by the wet thud of a body hitting the pavement. There was another scream, and a few seconds later he heard the sound of running feet approaching.

_ “No, no, no, come on mate, don’t do this. Please, Sherlock, don’t be dead. Please…”  _

John finally reached over and turned off the recording, his face wet with tears. He silently cursed Mycroft for leaving the recording and for putting his brother into the position which had gotten him killed. He cursed Sherlock’s ego, which had led him to do battle with a madman. Finally, he cursed himself, for being Sherlock’s weakness and allowing Moriarty to use him against the man who saved him from himself.

After setting the now cold cup of tea on the small side table, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. John doubted he would find sleep this night, but as he started to drift off he thought, just for a moment, that he felt a light pressure on his bad shoulder. It was oddly comforting and eventually his did fall into an uneasy slumber, the tears drying on his face.

XXX

It took Sherlock much longer than he expected to reach 221B but he stood in front of the door for several moments, debating on the best way to try and enter. Finally he squared his shoulders, closed his eyes and stepped through the solid-looking edifice. When he opened his eyes he was standing in the foyer and a small smile of triumph crossed his face before he dashed up the stairs, hoping to find his flatmate. Instead he found a much more unwelcome presence.

“Mycroft,” he called out, sincerely hoping his brother could hear him, just to see the look on his face. He was quickly disappointed when the older man didn’t even flinch and continued to rifle through Sherlock’s belongings.

“Couldn’t even wait until my body was cold, could you? What are you expecting to find, Mycroft? The code? Sorry to disappoint you, but Moriarty played us both for fools.” His brother continued to ignore him. “So much for you being the smart one,” he taunted, expecting some sort of reaction, only to be disappointed once again. 

Lapsing into silence, he watched as Mycroft continued his task. As the older man pulled a book from the shelf, a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. Mycroft bend to examine it and froze, his gaze locked on the object. Sherlock moved close and leaned over his shoulder to try and see what held his brother’s attention. It was a photograph of Sherlock himself, clearly taken prior to his school days, and in the picture his arms were wrapped around an elderly Irish setter that was licking his face with obvious joy shared by his human companion.

After several moments Mycroft retrieved the photo and carefully tucked it into his jacket, an odd look crossing his face as he did so.

“Sentiment, brother?” Sherlock asked, his voice cracking slightly. “I’m afraid it doesn’t suit you.” 

Mycroft remained unmoving for several minutes before he let out a soft sigh and resumed his task. Sherlock continued to watch him, the gravity of his situation slowly starting to sink in. Perhaps this communication problem was not going to be a simple to solve as he believed. What then? Was he doomed to spend eternity observing, yet never interacting? It hadn’t been until he met John that he realized he needed human interaction, and that his experiences were so much richer when he did have a living being off of which to bounce ideas. If he was stuck like this…

“What are you doing?”

Sherlock turned to see John standing in the doorway and he felt a surge of relief. “John,” he replied at the same time as Mycroft. 

“Mycroft. Why are you here?” John asked in a flat voice, his attention focused on the elder Holmes. 

Sherlock winced. He knew that tone. John was in a bad way, and he felt more than a twinge of remorse at the realization that he was the most likely cause of the man’s state.

“Making sure nothing of importance in this flat falls into the wrong hands.”

“Falls into the wrong…” An expression Sherlock had seen before, quite recently, appeared on John’s face. “Damn it, Mycroft, your brother is  _ dead! _ Don’t you even care?”

“My brother was one man. My concern is for the nation, as it always has been.”

“Wouldn’t have expected otherwise,” Sherlock remarked, but neither man indicated that they had heard him.

“This is about that damn code, isn’t it? You sent him after it. You had him confront that bastard because you thought he could get it when  _ you _ couldn’t. You sent him up on that roof, and--”

“He died because he was trying to save you.”

“What?” Shock, disbelief, anger and guilt fought for control in John’s voice. He caught the small recorder Mycroft tossed to him and stared at it, clearly confused.

“What’s this?”

“Moriarty’s confession. The code was a bluff. His target was my brother, who fell right into his trap, but at least Sherlock had the wherewithal to record their conversation.” Sherlock saw another familiar expression, this time on his brother’s face and he felt a twinge of indignation to see it aimed at John. “Go on, listen. It’s rather enlightening.”

John stared at the device but didn’t turn it on. “What do you mean, he died trying to save me?”

“Listen to the tape.”

John stared at Mycroft defiantly as he pocketed the recorder. After several moments of uncomfortable silence, Mycroft spoke, this time using a tone Sherlock didn’t immediately recognize. Was this...regret?

“I’m almost done here. The rent’s been paid for the next six months. That should give you plenty of time to...determine your next course of action.”

“I think you already know my next course of action, and I don’t need your charity.”

“Not  _ his _ charity, John,” Sherlock snapped just as Mycroft repeated the same information.

“My brother suspected he wouldn’t live through the encounter atop St. Bart’s. He arranged it without my contribution...although I would have been happy to assist.”

“Forgive me if I doubt that.”

“Why?”

Mycroft didn’t answer, returning to his work with a smug smile of his face, but Sherlock noticed something more, something startling. His brother was, for lack of a better term, upset. The cold outer shell that defined him was noticeably thinner, at least to the person who knew him better than anyone. 

Finally Mycroft finished his task and left, leaving Sherlock alone with John, who slowly walked over to his chair and sat down, removing the recorder from his pocket as he did so.  Sherlock followed and crouched down in front of him so he was facing the other man as John placed the recorder in plain sight.

“John. Tell me you can hear me… Please.”

John shivered and stood as Sherlock moved back to give him space. He walked into the kitchen to start a pot of tea before returning to his seat to stare at the recorder.

“Damn it, John. You’re the only one who ever really listened to me before, Why can’t you now?”

The silence was broken by the whistle of the kettle and John returned to the kitchen. A few minutes later he was back in his seat, and finally he pressed the play button on the recorder.

Sherlock listened to his confrontation with Moriarty but his focus was on John. The pain the conversation was causing John was obvious, and Sherlock felt a cold surge of fury wash over him, aimed not only at Moriarty and his brother, but also himself. How could he have been so stupid? Moriarty was right about one thing: he did always need the solution to be clever. His ego had cost him, as well as those close to him, greatly. 

He listened to the rest of the recording, flinching at the sound of the gunshot and at the impact of his body with the pavement. When John finally switched off the recorder he noticed the man’s distress, which caused his own eyes to sting in sympathy and John leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

“I’m sorry, John. I am so very sorry.” Without thinking he put a hand on John’s shoulder and sighed in anguish as it passed through with barely a twinge of feeling. He raised his hand slightly so it was resting just above the spot he had aimed to touch. He saw John smile briefly before the man succumbed to the pull of sleep. Sherlock remained there for quite some time, a plan forming in his head as he watched John’s uneasy slumber.

There had to be some way to get through to John, to make himself heard and to give his only true friend some answers. It was up to Sherlock to find it, and he would...no matter what. 

It was the least he could do.

TBC…

 

A/N: Transcript of the dialog from  _ The Reichenbach Fall _ provided by Ariane DeVere’s Live Journal.   
  



	4. Chapter 4

John opened his eyes and blinked groggily as a groan of pain brought on by sleeping in the chair escaped his lips. He glanced at the chair opposite and froze, believing for just the briefest moment that he could see Sherlock sitting there, still dressed in his coat and scarf, one leg slung over the other with his elbows resting on the arms of the chair and his fingers tented under his chin. Another blink and the image vanished, causing John to groan from a different type of pain as the memories of the previous day's events came crashing over him.

He levered himself out of the chair and headed to the loo to take care of necessities. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and winced before he splashed some water on his face and combed his hair in an effort to not look like walking death. After changing his clothes he headed back to the sitting area where he found someone waiting for him.

"Mrs. Hudson. Are you OK?"

"I...not really. Come downstairs, I made breakfast… Your favorite."

"You didn't need to do that."

"I wanted to. It...it helps to be useful."

"Right." He nodded stiffly and managed a hint of a smile. "Thank you."

He followed her down to her kitchen where a full breakfast waited. He sat down and started to pick at his food, unable to must much enthusiasm for eating it.

Mrs. Hudson watched him with a sympathetic expression in her eyes. "You should eat more, John. You need to keep up your strength."

"Sorry. It's...it's good, I'm just really not that hungry."

"I can warm it up for later."

"Fine." He brought forth the smile again, but it was more like a grimace. "Thank you."

"Those journalists have been banging on the door all morning. I told them to go away, but… I should call Lestrade."

"Doubt he could help," John muttered with more than a hint of anger in his voice. "Ignore them and eventually they'll find something else to write about."

"So...what are you going to do?"

"Find Moriarty."

"The police are looking for him. It's been on the radio and the telly. 'Britain's most wanted' they're calling him. That whole thing about Richard Brook, they're saying it was a hoax. That woman that wrote the story-Kitty Riley-she's been sacked."

"Good."

She studied him with worried eyes. "You're thinking of going after him, aren't you? Please don't, John. I couldn't bear...I don't want to lose you, too."

He reached across the table and gently took her hand. "You won't."

"Promise. Promise me you won't go after him alone."

He gave her a tight smile and gently squeezed her hand as he rose from his seat. She returned the smile and squeeze before he released her hand and headed back up to his flat. He noticed that the recorder had fallen on the floor and he retrieved it before slipping it into his pocket and sitting down in his chair once again.

He was still sitting there an hour later when Lestrade arrived and hesitantly knocked on the door sill before stepping into the room.

"John. How are you...holding up?"

"What do you want?"

"Right. I, uh… I wanted to tell you that Sherlock's name has been cleared. We...we found the body of a man who looks...looked a lot like him. We suspect that Moriarty had him kidnap the Bruhl children, and...that's why Claudette screamed when she saw Sherlock. She thought it was the kidnapper. We found...we found evidence linking this man to the crime scene."

"You found your man. Well, good for you."

Lestrade winced at John's tone and continued. "We matched the bullet from this man to a stolen pistol...the same gun used on Sherlock. We're trying to connect the theft to Moriarty, but… Sherlock's body has been released to his family. They'll let us know about the funeral."

"So which was it?"

"Which was what?"

"Which killed him, the bullet or the fall?"

"Uh…" He shifted uncomfortably. "We couldn't tell."

"Right. Anything else?"

Lestrade glanced around the room, his gaze alighting briefly on Sherlock's chair before he met John's angry gaze. "We...we'd like to move you to a safehouse. Moriarty's still out there and we're afraid he'll come after you."

"Again."

"What?"

"He'll come after me again. He caught me once and strapped a bomb to my chest, and apparently he had a sniper aiming at me yesterday."

" _What?_ How do you know that?"

John reached into his pocket and tossed the recorder to Lestrade, who fumbled a moment before getting a good grip on it. "It's all there. Moriarty's confession." Lestrade started to press the play button. "No, not here. Take it back to the station and let all of them hear it. All of the people who doubted Sherlock. Show them how _wrong_ they were." Lestrade nodded. "Now get out."

"John… I _am_ sorry. About everything. Would you please at least consider-"

"No. Get out."

"OK." He turned and left, leaving John alone with the silence.

XXX

Sherlock watched as John adjusted the tie that went with his only black suit. He wanted to tell John that it was still slightly crooked but unfortunately it would be a wasted effort. Despite days of trying to make someone hear him, Sherlock had been unsuccessful in every attempt he had made. He had even considered morse code, but his frantic banging on every available surface was just as ignored as his increasingly frustrated commentary.

Unable to get his voice to penetrate the veil between the living and the dead, he had tried other means of communication. Besides morse, he had attempted to manipulate pens and pencils to leave notes, but he lacked the ability to reliably move or lift them, never mind putting point to paper. John had not left any other their laptops open for him to try typing and there was no typewriter in the flat for him to use instead. He had even tried leaving messages in the dust with no luck.

Sherlock had tried getting John's attention in other ways, but he had only succeeded in knocking a few things on the floor that would have soon succumbed to the pull of gravity without his help. John had noticed the objects out of place and had simply replaced them, seemingly without a thought. Sherlock had hated being ignored while he was alive but it was much worse now. He'd taken to going out and shouting at random strangers on the street, none of which had paid him mind.

Maybe this was Hell, after all.

With a sigh of annoyance he followed John downstairs where Mrs. Hudson was waiting, dressed in funeral black. He accompanied them out of the flat where a couple of reporters still lingered, only slightly surprised when a sleek black sedan pulled up to the kerb and a man in a dark suit emerged to scatter the reporters before he opened the back door and allowed John and Mrs. Hudson to climb into the back seat.

Sherlock slipped into the front passenger seat, not for the first time pondering the incongruence of his existence. He could pass through solid steel doors but could still sit in a leather-covered seat, both in a car and in his favorite chair back in the flat. He had thought John had actually seen him that first morning, sitting in his usual spot after he figured out he _could_ do it, but the other man hadn't pursued it and Sherlock had come to the uncomfortable conclusion that it was just wishful thinking.

The living passengers in the car were silent for the entire trip, while Sherlock provided his own commentary on the passing scenery. When they finally arrived at their destination, Sherlock decided to stay outside. The idea of entering a church to listen to his own memorial service was a bit too much to take, so he occupied himself by wandering the area around the small building, clearly chosen by his parents rather than Mycroft. He was surprised to see several members of NSY walk up to the church but not enter. He wondered if they were supposed to be security but decided Mycroft would have provided for that if he felt it was necessary, and Sherlock doubted it would be so obvious.

After all but the officers had entered the building Sherlock extended his wanderings beyond the churchyard and noticed someone who clearly didn't belong in the area. The man was sitting in a car parked across the street from the church and he had a open book propped up on the steering wheel but he was obviously not reading it. Sherlock slipped into the passenger seat to study the man more closely. His haircut, bearing, and focused scrutiny, as well as his non-descript but carefully laundered clothing indicated a military background, but the cigarette ash clinging to his trouser leg was not domestic, nor was the firearm tucked into a shoulder holster.

"Mercenary," Sherlock declared, unsurprised that the man didn't hear him. "One of Moriarty's. Mycroft would never hire outside his circle for security. The big question remains: who are you after? Mycroft, or John?"

Of course the man didn't reply but a few minutes later he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a cell phone. Sherlock saw the text message he received, but it did not provide further enlightenment as to the man's target. It did confirm his earlier suspicions when the man began an exchange with the mysterious texter.

_?_

_Still inside. NSY present. Abort?_

_Tonight._

_B St.?_

_I'll provide distraction._

_Understood._

Sherlock swore. John was in danger, and there was nothing he could do to stop it unless he could somehow break through the communication barrier that had vexed him for days. He phased through the car door and ran back to the church, hoping that someone would be receptive to his efforts. When he reached the church he stopped, surprised by the sight of a large group of police officers in uniform approaching the front door to join their cohorts. They all lined up on either side of the path and stood at parade rest just as the front doors of the church opened.

John and Mycroft emerged first, each carrying one end of a simple coffin. Behind them were two men Sherlock didn't recognize gripping the middle handles in one hand each and finally, Lestrade and Dimmock were supporting the other end. The lines of men and women snapped to attention and saluted as the group passed between them. Sherlock noticed Sergeant Donovan and Anderson among them and was surprised by the expressions on their faces. He expected the guilt, but he also saw grief.

John's face remained impassive as he helped carry the coffin to the grave site, as did Mycroft's, while Lestrade clearly shared the anguish of his colleagues. Behind the coffin bearers, his parents followed along, displaying emotion that Sherlock was not sure he deserved from either of them, considering his own coolness towards them during his later years. Molly and Mrs. Hudson followed his parents, and again he saw more pain than he thought he could possibly cause by his passing.

Once the men reached the gravesite and placed the coffin on the dias John and Mycroft joined his family and the few friends he had. Lestrade remained but kept his distance from the group, and Dimmock returned to the church to lead the officers around the perimeter of the churchyard, blocking the view from curious passerbys.

Satisfied that John was at least safe for the time being, Sherlock listened to the brief service, surprised by the constricted feeling he felt in his throat. He'd never really contemplated his own demise, but now that he was witnessing the aftermath...the effect it had on him surprised him.

"Looks like you're not the only one afflicted by sentiment, dear brother," he muttered as he stood next to Mycroft. The older man said nothing, but the shift in his breathing pattern told Sherlock that his brother was struggling to maintain his composure. Whether it was from grief (which he doubted) or from anxiety caused by the Moriarty situation, he couldn't be completely certain.

As the coffin was slowly lowered into the earth, the small group headed back towards the church. His mother grasped John's hand and he managed to giver her a polite smile.

"I'm sorry we didn't get to meet you under better circumstances, Dr. Watson. Thank you for...for befriending my son." John simply nodded. "Would you like to join us back at the house? It's not too far, and-"

"Sorry," John replied. "I...I can't. Not today…"

She gave him an understanding smile. "Some other time, then. I'd love to hear more of your stories, ones that didn't make it onto your blog." Sherlock rolled his eyes. Even his mother read the damn thing!

"Some other time." John's voice was still polite, but Sherlock knew that tone. He was desperate to escape the company of others. What he would do when he did escape was what worried Sherlock, especially considering what he had seen outside the churchyard.

"Alight. Dr. Hooper, Mrs Hudson?"

Mrs. Hudson started to beg off but John interrupted her. "I'll be fine. You go on. I'll see you back at the flat later."

She nodded-rather reluctantly, Sherlock noted-and John headed for the gate. Mycroft sent one of his men a brief glance and the man followed John out to the waiting sedan, with Sherlock accompanying them both. When they reached the car Sherlock joined John in the back seat and once again tried to get the other man to hear him. In frustration he resorted to physical contact, which had no effect on John other than making him shiver and ask the driver to turn up the heat.

With a cry of rage Sherlock put his hands to his head and tried desperately to access any information in his mind palace. Unfortunately he had dealt in facts and science, and the supernatural didn't really have a place there, other than a few old articles about 'hauntings' that he had quickly debunked, Houdini's efforts to discredit the 'spiritualists' and 'mediums' of his day, and a few fragments of an American movie from the early 90's he'd been forced to watch by a woman he'd been trying to manipulate for information. Since he doubted that he would be fortunate enough to find a psychic through which to communicate, the only other option available was possession.

Sherlock studied John for a moment and sighed. No matter how much he wanted to warn his friend, he was not about to subject him to an uncontrolled experiment. Now, Mycroft's lackey, on the other hand…

Sherlock spent the rest of the trip gathering everything tiny scrap of information he had on possession from his mind palace. By the time they reached Baker Street, he was ready to try something he'd never really believed to exist.

Once the car had stopped outside 221B Sherlock placed his hands on either side of the driver's head and willed himself to enter the man's mind. There was a brief flash of something akin to an electrical shock and suddenly he found himself looking out through the driver's eyes. He could feel something trying to push him out, and he knew he didn't have much time to give his warning as he turned towards the back seat.

"John." Speaking through another's voice box was infinitely strange, but he didn't have time to analyze it. "Be careful tonight. Make sure the doors and windows are locked and stay away from the windows."

John stared at him for a moment, confusion crossing his face before a flash of anger appeared.

"Right. Because Mycroft cares _that_ much about me."

"John…"

The doctor exited the car just as Sherlock was forced out of the body of the driver and out onto the pavement. He saw the driver shake his head in confusion then turn to watch John disappear behind the black door of 221B. A few moments later he drove off, leaving Sherlock behind, too weak to move.

_Damn it, John, why must you be such a stubborn idiot?_ was Sherlock's last thought before everything went dark.

It was dark outside by the time Sherlock became aware of his surroundings again. He was still lying on the pavement outside his old flat and he had no idea how much time had passed.

_Scratch that off the list_ , he thought as he staggered to his feet and surveyed the surrounding area. The number of pedestrians and cars indicated that it was still fairly early in the evening, and he saw no sign of Moriarty's man skulking in the vicinity. Of course, knowing the type of network his nemesis ran, it was not surprising that one of his people could avoid detection while stalking their prey.

He quickly made a circuit of the block but found no trace of the assassin. Hoping he wasn't too late he ran back to the flat and through the front door. The foyer was silent and he quickly checked Mrs Hudson's quarters, only to find them empty. Knowing his mother, he suspected both Mrs Hudson and Molly were still at his childhood home, being bored by tales from his childhood. He ground his teeth in chagrin at the thought and headed up the steps to his flat.

He found John sitting in his usual chair, fast asleep, with a half-empty bottle on the stand next to the chair and an empty tumbler on the floor below his dangling hand. Sherlock swore again. Tonight, of all nights, John had chosen to drink himself unconscious, even after receiving a very clear warning of danger. Sherlock wondered if the good doctor did indeed have a death wish.

He paused. _Did_ John want to die?

He studied his friend and took in the signs of self-neglect and lack of sleep. Sherlock had seen these signs before, and had considered them to be the result of the grief John had clearly been experiencing over the past few days. He had seen obvious anger, one of the stages of grieving, but he hadn't noticed the John had moved beyond that, not yet.

"No. No, you're a stronger man than this, John Watson. You survived Afghanistan, Chinese gang members, a bomb strapped to your chest, the Woman, Baskerville, and...me. You're not giving up, not if I have anything to say about it. Do you hear me, John?"

John muttered something in his sleep that sounded like agreement and Sherlock felt a surge of elation. _Had_ he heard? Sherlock dove back into his mind palace, searching for something to support a vague memory, something about increased susceptibility to suggestion as a side effect of intoxication...hypnosis...somnambulism…

The sound of lockpicks yanked him from his search and he froze, listening to the minute scraping sounds as someone worked the tumblers in the lock. He instantly knew who it had to be and realized he was out of time. If he had any chance at getting through to John, he'd have to do it now, and use something that was sure to get the man's attention. Gathering all of his strength, he leaned down and shouted in the doctor's ear as loud as he could.

" _VATICAN CAMEOS!"_

TBC…


	5. Chapter 5

 

John tightened his tie and adjusted it as he stared in the mirror. Not perfectly straight, but he doubted anyone would notice, well, except perhaps the man for whom he was dressing in funeral black. After one last look in the mirror he made his way down to the main room of the flat to grab his coat. He then headed down to retrieve Mrs. Hudson for the trip out of the city to Sherlock's final resting place.

Mycroft had insisted in providing the transportation, and John climbed into one of the hated black sedans without a word, maintaining his silence for the entirety of the ride. Surprisingly, Mrs. Hudson was also silent, and the time passed with agonizing slowness. He could almost imagine the remarks Sherlock himself would be making in the situation and tightened his grip on his emotions even further. It was the only way he could deal with the pain.

Finally they arrived at a small church on the outskirts of the town where apparently Sherlock's parents lived. It felt strange to think of either Sherlock or Mycroft as actually having parents, but when John met them he could see the younger brother's features in Mr. Holmes' long face and Mrs. Holmes' startling blue-green eyes. Both, of course, looked absolutely devastated at the loss of their son.

The arrival of Lestrade and Inspector Dimmock sent a spike of anger through John's heart and he only managed to not glare at them out of deference to Sherlock's parents. He did manage to pull Mycroft aside to question their presence.

"What in the hell are _they_ doing here?" he hissed near Mycroft's ear and the man gave him one of those infuriatingly condescending looks.

"They are here to pay their respects to a colleague, and to help carry his coffin. While I know it would please you to have Lestrade sent to the ends of the earth for his betrayal of my brother, the sad fact is that he was a man caught between the proverbial rock and hard place. Suspicions were raised and he, as part of his duty, had to investigate them, no matter how distasteful he found the situation."

"' _Distasteful_ '? He-"

" _Look_ at him, Dr. Watson. Take what my brother taught you and _observe_. He clearly hasn't slept, he's taken up smoking again, a sure sign of stress, and many other signs of self neglect are obvious, all clear manifestations of guilt. He was trapped in a horrible situation, just as my brother was due to Moriarty's machinations."

"Sherlock."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your brother has a name. Sherlock. You could at least try using it at his bloody funeral!"

A flash of pain, almost too brief to notice crossed Mycroft's face. "Of course. _Sherlock_ did not have many friends, I'm sure you realize, certainly not in country. I imagine he would prefer someone he could at least tolerate to assist in carrying his coffin rather than strangers, wouldn't you?"

John said nothing and controlled himself enough to calmly walk to the front of the church where the coffin rested on a raised platform surrounded by flowers. John bit his lip to contain a strangled laugh as he once again imagined the comments his irreverent friend would have made at such a spectacle.

The coffin was plain with six simple iron handles set along its length, and thankfully closed. While John was almost desperate to see his friend's face just one more time, he didn't think he could take seeing it made up like a doll by the local mortician for a proper viewing. He knew Sherlock would have been mortified by such attentions and overt displays of sentiment.

John sighed and reached out to rest his hand on top of the smooth wood of the coffin, bowing his head as he silently said a prayer for the man who had saved his life in so many ways. He only wished he had been able to return the favor one last time.

"I'll get him, Sherlock," John whispered. "I promise, if it's the last thing I do, I'll get him. He'll pay for what he did to you." After a few more minutes of silence he sensed someone standing next to him and looked up to see the vicar at his elbow, a sympathetic expression on his deeply lined face.

"We're ready to begin."

John nodded and took his seat between Molly and Mrs. Hudson. Both women wrapped an arm around each of his and clung to him for comfort, a gesture he was only barely able to return. He tried to listen to the service but if asked later he wouldn't be able to recall any of it up until he was asked to come up and say a few words. Slowly he untangled himself from his companions and made his way up to the lectern. The vicar stepped aside and gently squeezed his arm in comfort as John turned to his small audience. He took a deep, slightly shaky breath and began to speak.

"Sherlock Holmes was...unlike anyone I had ever met. He was brilliant...and sometimes oblivious. He could talk for hours...and remain silent for days. There were times that I didn't even think...didn't even think he was human but...he was the most _human_ human being I ever met." His voice lowered to a whisper. "Not a machine."

After pausing to collect himself after remembering his final words to his friend, John cleared his throat and continued at a normal volume.

"He told me he didn't have 'friends', he just had one… He considered me a friend, but I know he also had people he considered worth saving...worth risking-and _giving_ -his own life to save. I… I am honored to have been one of those...select few. And he...he was _my_ friend." He chuckled weakly. "No matter how crazy he drove me at times." He heard soft, teary laughter from Mrs. Hudson and Molly and when he glanced at Lestrade he could see the dampness around the man's eyes.

John took a deep breath as the anger tried to fight its way to the surface. "Someone once told me that Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and that some day, if we're very lucky, he might even be a good one." Lestrade nodded as his jaw clenched. "I know that Sherlock was... _is_ a good man, despite...everything. I never doubted that, and I'm sorry… I'm sorry I never got a chance to tell him." John drew in a shaky breath. "So now I want to make sure everyone else knows that, too." His small audience nodded, even Mycroft.

Finally he turned to face the coffin. "I owe you so much, and I never got...I never got a chance to thank you." He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry I wasn't there...when I should have been, and I hope… I hope you can forgive me…" His voice dropped to a whisper again. "Someday." He stared at the coffin for a moment longer before slowly returning to his seat. Molly and Mrs. Hudson each gave him a reassuring hug but he barely felt them, overwhelmed as he was in his own guilt and misery.

The church service ended and John took his place next to the coffin. Mycroft stood on the other side as two of his men grabbed the middle handles and the two inspectors took the last pair. Together they lifted the box-lighter, but not _much_ lighter than John expected it to be-and carried it towards the front doors of the church. When the doors opened, John was shocked by the number of uniformed policemen and women standing outside, and was even more shocked when they all stood at attention and saluted. He kept his eyes forward and face expressionless as they passed between the two rows of officers and marched towards the gravesite.

After they had placed the coffin on the dias John stood beside Sherlock's parents as the vicar performed the last part of the service. The mourners each stepped forward in turn and placed a rose on the coffin before it started its descent into the earth and the small group started to head back to the church.

Sherlock's mother grasped John's hand and he managed to giver her a polite smile.

"I'm sorry we didn't get to meet you under better circumstances, Dr. Watson. Thank you for...for befriending my son." John simply nodded. "Would you like to join us back at the house? It's not too far, and-"

"Sorry," John replied. "I...I can't. Not today…"

She gave him an understanding smile. "Some other time, then. I'd love to hear more of your stories, ones that didn't make it onto your blog."

"Some other time."

"All right. Dr. Hooper, Mrs Hudson?"

Mrs. Hudson started to beg off but John interrupted her. "I'll be fine. You go on. I'll see you back at the flat later."

She nodded as John headed for the gate. He reached the car and was joined by one of Mycroft's men a few moments later, who unlocked it and climbed into the driver's seat as John climbed into the back. Both men remained silent until John started to shiver in the oddly cold interior of the sedan.

"Could you turn up the heat, please?"

"Certainly, sir."

Soon warm gusts of air dispersed the cold and John leaned back in the seat, closing his eyes but not sleeping. His mind was churning, wondering how he of all people would be able to bring down Moriarty when so many others had failed. He tried to remember what Sherlock had told him about the man, and the only real bit of advice he could recall was that most times one had to wait for a criminal to make a mistake. John wasn't sure if he could wait that long.

Finally they reached Baker Street and as John started to climb out of the car the driver spoke to him.

"John." He turned to the man, surprised by the casual manner of address. "Be careful tonight. Make sure the doors and windows are locked and stay away from the windows."

John stared at him for a moment, confusion soon giving way to anger.

"Right. Because Mycroft cares _that_ much about me."

"John…"

He slammed the door and stalked toward the entrance to his flat, turning to check on the driver once he had reached it. He saw the man shake his head before driving off, a bit unsteadily. John slipped inside 221B and turned the lock, pausing a moment to go over the man's words. A definite warning, but there was something oddly familiar in the man's tone. John shook his head and started up the stairs. Probably some sort of trick of Mycroft's, trying to get John to trust his men more, but the doctor wasn't in the mood to play along, not tonight.

After a visit to his own room to change out of his suit and into jeans and a jumper he returned to the dark sitting room and settled in his chair to stare at the other chair facing his own. He had spent many hours over the past few days in that same position, but had yet to experience a flash of insight on how he should proceed. With a growl of frustration he rose and headed into the kitchen where he found an opened bottle of scotch that didn't look like it had been used for an experiment. He grabbed a tumbler from the cabinet and returned to his chair, pouring himself a healthy portion into the glass before capping the bottle and setting it on the stand. As a doctor he knew that last thing he needed right now was alcohol, but he ignored that voice and took a gulp of the liquid, wincing as it burned his throat.

"Shouldn't be doing this," he muttered. "Should be out… chasing after you around London, looking for clues on a case. That's the way things should be… doing ridiculous things…"

_That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever done…_

_And you invaded Afghanistan…_

John took another gulp and winced again. "How did everything go so...wrong? Some lunatic takes an interest in you and...you played his game… You _bloody_ idiot!" He drained his glass and let it fall to the floor with a soft thump. "Why did you have to do that? Why...did you… let… him… win?"

John's eyes slipped closed and his head fell back against the chair as consciousness faded. He knew he was dreaming as he watched the scene atop St. Bart's over and over, always with the same horrible outcome. He wanted to climb up there on his own, to join them, to stop the fall…

_And maybe fall yourself…_

Eventually a voice penetrated his nightmares, a familiar, comforting voice, one he had so longed to hear again.

" _No. No, you're a stronger man than this, John Watson. You survived Afghanistan, Chinese gang members, a bomb strapped to your chest, the Woman, Baskerville, and...me. You're not giving up, not if I have anything to say about it. Do you hear me, John?"_

"Yes…"

_I want to hear you...please...why can't I hear you, Sherlock...talk to me...please…_

" _VATICAN CAMEOS!"_

John immediately jerked awake, on his feet and gun in hand before he even realized what was happening. He froze, listening for the voice that had pulled him from his dreams but instead he heard a different sound: a soft scratching, metal upon metal, coming from the locked door to the flat. He quickly slipped into the shadow of the kitchen and pulled out his phone before dialing 999 and putting it up to his ear. He heard the call connect and immediately whispered into the mouthpiece.

"My name is Dr. John Watson, I'm at 221B Baker Street, and someone is trying to break into my flat. Hurry." He quickly disconnected the call and pocketed the phone before bringing his other hand up to steady the gun he had aimed at the door.

The door slowly swung open and a dark figure stepped through, aiming a gun of its own at the room beyond. When it turned away from John he stepped out of the kitchen and cocked the hammer of his gun.

"Drop your weapon, or I _will_ shoot you."

The man immediately spun towards John and he pulled the trigger, catching the intruder in the shoulder. The man screamed and collapsed as the gun hit the floor and John was on him immediately, kicking the gun away and pressing his foot into the man's shoulder as he aimed the gun at his head. In the dim light from the hallway he could see that it _wasn't_ Moriarty.

"Who are you?" The man said nothing and John pressed his foot harder into the man's shoulder, eliciting a whimper of pain. "Moriarty sent you, didn't he?" The man stared at John, wide-eyed, but didn't reply. "He'll be the least of your problems if you don't tell me. How many more holes would you like? I know exactly where to put them to cause the most pain without killing you, so tell me: did Moriarty send you?" The man whimpered again and nodded just as the sound of running feet reached John's ears.

"Police! Freeze! Drop your weapon!"

"I'm Dr. Watson. I live here, and I called you," John replied as he slowly removed his finger from the trigger and carefully moved one hand away from the gun.

"Stand down," a pair of familiar voices called out in unison as both Lestrade and Mycroft moved into view. John took a step back and Lestrade nodded to one of his men, who roughly cuffed the man on the floor.

"What happened?"

"This man broke in and aimed a gun at me. I defended myself."

"So I see," Mycroft replied. "I'll handle this, Detective Inspector."

"We'll need your weapon, John."

"Don't worry, Dr. Watson, we'll provide a back-up."

"Fine." John rendered the gun safe and handed it to Lestrade, who carefully placed it in a bag and handed it off to one of his men. Two more men dragged the would-be-assassin to his feet and escorted him down the stairs and out of sight.

"Sorry, John, but this is now a crime scene, and…"

"So process it. I"m going to bed." He turned to Mycroft and raised an eyebrow expectantly. Mycroft chuckled softly and slipped a revolver from his pocket.

"Fully loaded, I promise."

"Good."

"But may I ask that you hold off on retiring for the evening, Dr. Watson? I believe there are things we need to discuss."

John nodded curtly and walked over to stand against the fireplace from where he watched the crime scene technicians go about their tasks as quickly as possible. Finally, when they were done the police left, leaving John and Mycroft alone in the flat. Mycroft walked over and picked up the fallen tumbler, sniffing it before setting it on the stand.

"Quite fortuitous that you were able to hear the man breaking in."

"I woke up in time."

"I see. Also fortuitous that my men were close by. I admit, I am surprised Moriarty would act so quickly."

John scoffed. "Don't give me that. You knew this was going to happen. Your driver warned me when he dropped me off."

Mycroft's eyebrows rose in surprise. "He made no mention of that to me. But no matter. I see the warning was well heeded." John said nothing. "Are you sure you wouldn't want to reconsider my offer of a safe house?"

"I'm not letting Moriarty drive me from our...my home."

"Very well. But least allow me to provide security."

"Bang-up job you did of that tonight."

Mycroft pursed his lips in displeasure. "I'm afraid there was a bit of a distraction, earlier. We handled it, just as you handled the situation here."

"Right."

"Nevertheless, we will be much more vigilant in the future. Nothing to worry about on that front, Dr. Watson." John said nothing. "Now, I must be off. I'll make sure your personal weapon is returned to you as soon as possible. You seem to be quite attached to it." Mycroft smirked at John's expression. "Good night, Dr. Watson. I am pleased that you made it through this little incident unscathed." He turned and left as John followed him to the door and locked it behind him before he returned to his seat.

Mycroft was right, he hated to admit. He was damned lucky he had woken up...but why had he? He tried to remember the dream, which seemed to be a warning...including the code phrase he and Sherlock had used. He had heard it so clearly, but how?

John's eyed widened almost comically in surprise as a rich, familiar baritone echoed through the silent room.

"Mycroft is right about one thing, John. You need to be more careful."

" _S_ - _sherlock?!_ "

TBC…


	6. Chapter 6

“ _ S _ - _ sherlock?!? _ ”

 

Caught off-guard by John’s stammered question, Sherlock froze and stared at his friend in surprise. That feeling was soon replaced with something much more dangerous: hope.

 

“John? You can hear me?”

 

John’s gaze snapped to the place where Sherlock stood, his eyes widening as he slowly started to nod but then he closed his eyes and shook his head vigorously.

 

“No, no, damn it, I am not hearing this. It’s a trick, a bloody trick! Mycroft, or Moriarty, one of you bastards!”

 

“No, John, it’s not a trick.” Sherlock could barely contain his excitement. “You  _ can _ hear me.”

 

John stopped shaking his head and opened his eyes as he searched the room. “OK. All right. I can hear you. Which means I’ve lost my  _ bloody _ mind, hearing the voice of a dead man!” His gaze lighted on the bottle of whiskey. “Or was there something in the drink after all? Sherlock and his damn experiments. I knew I should have found an unopened bottle.”

 

“And what’s the likelyhood of finding one in this flat, occupied by people who are neither habitual drinkers nor hoarders of alcohol?”

 

“Not very damn likely, obviously… No, damn it, I am not talking back to the voice in my head.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “It’s...it’s the stress. This bloody  _ awful  _ day--”

 

“Technically  _ this _ day is just beginning.”

 

“Shut  _ up! _ I’m not hearing you...hearing this, I can’t be.” He took a deep breath. “Sherlock Holmes is dead, and no matter how much I wish that wasn’t true, this...this is not healthy.”

 

“I am sorry, John. I wish there was another way, but over these past few days I’ve discovered that I  _ need _ to talk to you...and that I need you to hear me. Please.”

 

John didn’t reply, that stubborn expression still on his face, but Sherlock thought he detected the faintest glimmer of...hope? Belief? Despite his protests, John did need this, too. He was sure of it.

 

“Remember what I told you at Baskerville? ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be true’. Eliminate the impossible, John.”

John snorted softly. “And how am I supposed to do that?”

 

“You are hearing my voice. You cannot deny that, can you?” John reluctantly shook his head. “So  _ think _ , John. How could that be possible? You’re one of the sanest people I know, so--.”

 

“Not much of a ringing endorsement, is it?” He huffed again. “I was seeing a therapist. Doesn’t exactly make me sane.”

 

“On the contrary. You recognized that you needed help dealing with the trauma you experienced in Afghanistan. You admitted that there was a problem. Sane people are the first ones to believe that they are crazy, ergo…”

 

“OK, so maybe I’m not...crazy. Then it’s a trick.”

 

“Good, let’s examine that idea. How could it be done?”

 

“Hidden microphone and receiver. An actor who can imitate your...Sherlock’s voice.”

 

“Possible. But why?”

 

“Well I don’t know that, do I? Moriarty wanting revenge? Mycroft playing one of his games?”

 

“Bit too gauche for Mycroft, wouldn’t you say? And to what purpose?”

 

John was silent for several moments before he let out a sigh of frustration. “I don’t know.”

 

“You’re not a security threat. In fact, I would venture to say that, if it were possible for Mycroft to actually  _ like _ someone, he does like you. He’d have no reason to torment you.”

 

“So that leaves Moriarty.”

 

“Except Moriarty sent someone to kill you. When would he have had time to set this up when that attempt failed?”

 

“Back-up plan?”

 

Sherlock considered the idea. “Possible. If that’s the case, when would the devices need to have been planted?”

 

“Today. I haven’t left the flat otherwise since… Since Sherlock died.”

 

“Right,” Sherlock replied, his excitement dampened by John’s obvious grief. “So you would need to determine if any devices had been planted.”

After a few moments of silence John nodded. He started to rise from his seat but Sherlock’s voice stopped him.

 

“Call Mycroft. Have his people check. They can do it without disturbing anything.”

 

“I’m not calling Mycroft at this time of night for--”

 

“He only left a few minutes ago. I doubt he’s even close to home yet, much less asleep. Call him.”

 

“And why should I listen to you?”

 

Sherlock sighed. “Because you want to solve this mystery, and unless you want to spend the next several hours tearing this flat apart...”

 

“Fine.” He pulled out his mobile and pulled up a number from his contact list. Sherlock heard Mycroft’s voice answer on the second ring.

 

_ “John. What’s wrong?” _

 

“What makes you think something is wrong?” John replied, the slight tremor in his voice all too obvious to someone like the elder Holmes brother.

 

_ “I don’t imagine you’d be making a social call at this time of night, especially to me, and you are quite clearly upset. What has happened?” _

 

“I think… I think someone has bugged the flat. I need to know if they have.”

 

_ “Unlikely. Why?” _

 

“I was just...what if Moriarty had a back-up plan? In case his assassin failed?”

 

_ “What sort of plan?” _

 

“Uh...information gathering...to use against me.”

 

_ “I see. I can assure you that after...my brother’s untimely demise, I personally swept the flat for any type of electronic surveillance. It’s clean.” _

 

“But could someone have placed new ones today while I was out?”

 

_ “Also unlikely. The area is being monitored, for your safety, of course. I have already checked the footage and no one entered 221B during your absence. Your privacy is intact.” _

“OK.”

 

_ “Was there anything else?” _

 

“No. Sorry to bother you.”

 

_ “No bother at all, John.”  _ The mobile went silent and Sherlock realized that Mycroft had ended the call. His brother’s suspicious nature had certainly been tweaked, and he suspected the older man would be keeping a close eye on John in the foreseeable future, which was not necessarily a bad thing.

 

“Satisfied?” he asked and John flinched slightly before he shook his head.

 

“We’re back to ‘crazy’, it seems.” He chuckled softly. “Great. Either I’ve completely gone off the twig or my best friend is a… a ghost.”

 

“I believe we’ve already addressed your mental state, so what would it take to convince you that I am here, in this room with you, in non-corporeal form?”

 

John considered the question. “I guess...you’d have to tell me something I don’t know, but can confirm later.” He was silent for a few moments. “Tell me what’s going on outside, right now. Tell me, and then I can look out the window and check for myself.”

 

“Very well.” Sherlock walked to the window and pressed his face to the curtain and phased through so he could see the street below. “Not much activity, I’m afraid. Two cars parked on the street. The black Jaguar is clearly Mycroft’s guard dog and the grey Nissan Skyline belongs to the ‘married ones’ next door. Bit of a luxury for renters, in my opinion.” He turned to the right. “Two taxis headed for the main thoroughfare, the second has the tag LV09KVB.” 

 

The curtain was pulled aside and he saw John peer through the window, his eyes widening when he caught sight of the taxis and Sherlock heard him whisper the numbers of the tag he had just given, still visible on the retreating vehicle. He smiled and turned his head to the left.

 

“Two couples approaching from the other end of the street, one on either side. No doubt returning from their pub night, judging by the unsteady gait. Three pints, each, minimum. The woman on the far side of the street is dressed a bit young, but I suspect she’s simply trying to appear closer in age to her companion who is at least ten years her junior.” 

 

He heard John gasp and turned to see him staring at the approaching couple. After a moment he dropped the curtain and backed away, finally bumped into the back of his chair and dropping into it, a look of shock on his face.

 

“Was that sufficient?”

“Sherlock?”

 

The younger man couldn’t help but smile. “Hello, John.”

 

“But...how?”

 

Sherlock sighed and seated himself in his own chair across from his companion. “I am afraid that is one question I am currently unable to answer.”

 

John’s gaze moved towards the chair, clearly following the sound of Sherlock’s disembodied voice. “Why can’t I see you?”

 

He sighed. “And that is another. I don’t know, John. I don’t know why you can hear me now when you could not before.”

 

“Before. You mean...you’ve been trying to…?”

 

“Communicate, yes. For days. It’s been highly frustrating, that I  _ can _ tell you.”

 

“But why… Why haven’t you, uh, moved on?”

 

Sherlock huffed. “Dull.”

 

For the first time in days a genuine smile crossed John’s face. “Now that...sounds like the Sherlock I know.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

His expression sobered quickly. “Oh, God. I am so sorry.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because...you  _ died  _ trying to save me.”

 

“No, John. I died because I caught the attention of a psychopath. Suffice to say these unfortunate events are on my shoulders rather than yours. I do not blame you at all for what happened to me.”

 

“What did happen, exactly?”

 

“You listened to the tape.”

 

“How did you… Right. You’ve been hanging around, haven’t you? That’s…a little creepy.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“It’s OK, but, uh… Yes, I did listen to the tape, but I couldn’t really tell how you got shot...and I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.”

 

“I thought I had convinced you of my existence?”

 

“You did, but… Never mind. What happened up on that roof?”

 

“Moriarty was going to kill himself so I couldn’t force him to call off the snipers or figure out how to do it myself. I would have to go through with the suicide he planned for me in order to prevent it. I tried to stop him.”

 

“Christ. He really is insane.”

 

“No doubt.”

 

An anguished expression crossed John’s face. “Guess he got what he wanted, then.”

 

“Not exactly.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“My suicide, in disgrace, would have enhanced his reputation as a master manipulator. My murder, on the other hand, has weakened him in the eyes of the criminal classes. He is no longer an unknown, hidden from the eyes of the authorities.”

 

“So why did he send someone after me?”

 

“Trying to rebuild that reputation, I suspect. He wanted to show he could take out someone under Mycroft’s protection.”

 

“Fantastic. I was supposed to be a sodding advertisement.”

 

“Something like that.”

 

“So what now? Do you think he’ll try again?”

 

“Not immediately.”

 

“But he  _ will _ try?”

 

“Likely, but not in the same manner. You’ll need to be on your guard, John.”

 

“Right.” He snorted softly. “I can just imagine trying to explain that one to Mycroft.”

 

“As long as you leave my current state of existence out of it.”

 

“Wait. You don’t want your brother to know?”

 

“That I am still around? No. I suspect it would offend his sense of propriety.”

 

“Since when has that bothered you?”

 

“True. However, the continuation of consciousness beyond death might be a bit much for someone of Mycroft’s mental persuasion to accept. I certainly wouldn’t have accepted it had I not experienced it firsthand.”

 

“It is pretty unbelievable,” John replied softly.

 

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Even now?”

 

John shook his head. “I keep expecting to wake up and find that this was some sort of bizarre dream. And I really hope that it’s not. I mean, you’re still here...sort of, and that’s...definitely better than the alternative.”

 

“Thank you.” An uncomfortable moment of silence passed before Sherlock decided to change the subject. “There’s still the issue of Moriarty. He still needs to be brought down, along with his entire criminal network.”

 

“And how, exactly, are you...are we going to do that?”

 

“I’m still working on a plan.”

 

“Wonderful. You will clue me in this time, won’t you?”

 

Sherlock winced at the bitter tone. “I have learned my lesson, John.”

 

“Sharp one it was, too.”

 

“Yes. It was.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“No matter.”

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Yes, John?”

 

“I’m… I’m really glad you’re still here. I mean, I wish you were still  _ here _ , but…”

 

“Understood.”

 

John smiled. “So now what?”

 

Sherlock grinned. “It appears, Dr. Watson, that the game is  _ still _ on. “

 

TBC...


	7. Chapter 7

A single sunbeam managed to breach the curtains and danced across John's face, pulling him from sleep. He sat up and blinked a few times, rubbing a hand across his face before the events of the previous night came crashing back. He jumped to his feet and glanced around the room, but all was silent and still except for the dust motes drifting in the scattered sunlight.

"Sherlock?"

Silence. John waited a moment before trying again.

"Sherlock? Are you here?"

There was no response. With a heavy heart John collapsed back into the chair and closed his eyes. _Just a dream. Just a **stupid** dream…_ He finally managed to open his eyes and when his gaze drifted towards the door his eyebrows shot up in surprise. He could see traces of fingerprint powder and other evidence that the forensics team had been here. He reached for the gun he normally had tucked in his waistband and jerked his hand back in shock when he felt the outline of a revolver, not the semi-automatic he always carried. Well, apparently until last night.

"So, not all a dream," he muttered as he took in the rest of the room. He rose from his chair and walked over to the window, carefully pulling the curtain aside. He saw the same black sedan that had been parked on the street last night, in the same place.

_Mycroft's guard dog…_

John winced. The memory of Sherlock's voice making that statement was so strong, felt so real. The certainty that the memory was a dream wavered as John stared out at the traffic and he was still examining his recollection of the previous night when he heard a light knock at the door. Remembering that it was now locked, he walked over and unlocked it to reveal Mrs. Hudson carrying a tray. She looked as pale and drained as John currently felt.

"Good morning, John. It's still morning, right? I thought you could use a nice cuppa."

He opened the door and took the try from her as she entered the flat. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. You really didn't need to do that." He carried the tray to the side table, nudging the bottle currently residing on it aside as he set the tray down and checked his watch. He winced when he saw it was nearly noon and when he returned his attention to Mrs. Hudson he saw her eyeing the bottle, a sad look on her face.

"Seems you had some excitement last night."

"What do you mean?"

"Lestrade stopped by earlier, just as I was getting in. I, that is, Molly and I stayed the night at the Holmes'. We just got back this morning. Lestrade said there was a break-in. Are you alright?"

"Fine. I'm...fine."

"What happened?"

John sighed. There was really no point in keeping it from her. "Moriarty sent one of his people here. I subdued him and the police took him away. No damage done."

"Sent one of his people here...to _kill_ you?" Reluctantly, John nodded and Mrs. Hudson gasped in horror. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Better than the man he sent," John replied grimly.

Mrs. Hudson stared at him, wide-eyed, for a moment before nodding. "Good." She glanced around the room her, gaze lighting on the empty tumbler on the floor. "Are you sure...do you need anything? I could make you some breakfast...well, a late breakfast."

"Not necessary. I'll be going out soon anyway."

"Right. Please be careful, won't you?"

He smiled and gave her a gentle hug. "I will. Thank you for everything."

When they broke the embrace she scurried out of the flat, closing the door behind her. John locked it again and returned to his chair to drink his tea, his mind soon returning to last night. He remembered waking to the sounds of someone trying to break into the flat, but something else had definitely pulled him from sleep. What had it been. Suddenly he remembered the voice in his dream.

_VATICAN CAMEOS!_

He shook his head. Had his subconscious been aware of the danger and brought forth the code phrase he and Sherlock had used? Did he somehow still think he needed the other man to protect him? John snorted in disgust. _You never used to be that needy…_

He groaned and rose from his chair. It was time to start taking charge of his own life again. He headed off to shower and change and soon he returned to the living room, feeling cleaner if nothing else. He opened his laptop and pulled up his CV, checking the information and making a few updates and changes before he sent it to the printer. While it was printing he made a list of possible places to apply. After tucking the printouts into an empty file folder, he grabbed his coat, checked his pocket for his keys and unlocked the door.

"Where are you going?"

The disembodied voice sent his heart racing and he leaned against the door, desperately trying to calm himself as the realization that _nothing_ of the previous night was a dream hit him.

"What's wrong?"

"Jesus, Sherlock! Could you give me a little warning next time?"

"Sorry, warning for what?"

"I...wasn't expecting you to be here."

"I thought we established my existence last night?"

"We… we did, but this morning… You didn't answer, and I thought…"

"Sorry, I was out doing some reconnaissance. After you fell asleep, I… Well, I don't need to sleep so I decided to put the time to good use."

John's heart had finally returned to its normal rhythm and he managed to stand up straight. "What did you find?"

"No evidence of anyone keeping the flat under surveillance, with the exception of Mycroft's people, of course. It's safe for you to leave the flat, but you didn't know that until I told you. Why were you leaving?"

"I need to find a job."

"Why? The rent's been paid for a few months."

"Yes, but not forever. It might take me time to find something. My employment history is not exactly stellar."

"Any hospital or clinic would be lucky to have you."

John smiled weakly. "Thanks, but I can't exactly use your endorsement."

"True. Well, shall we go? Where to first?"

"Sherlock, I...you don't need to come along."

"Why not?"

"Because, I...uh…"

"Won't be comfortable with a ghost accompanying you on any interview you may land. I would be a distraction."

John sighed. "No, you know what? It's fine. You can come along, but...just don't expect me to be able to talk back."

"Right. You wouldn't want anyone to question your sanity, especially if they haven't read your blog."

John could almost hear the smirk in Sherlock's voice. "Funny. Alright, let's go." John left the flat and after locking the door behind him, made his way out to the street. He was almost tempted to hail a taxi, just for old time's sake but instead headed for the nearest Tube station.

The closest clinic was his first stop, but he was informed that they didn't have any current openings, not even for locum work. A larger clinic was next, and while the doctor in charge was impressed with his CV, he didn't have any openings either. He did promise to keep John's CV on file in case something did open up.

The next three stops all produced the same result as the previous two, and as John realized he was starting to run out of options unless he was willing to travel a significant distance from Baker Street. On impulse he decided to try a different option - an emergency department at one of the closer hospitals.

As John approached the entrance he paused, scenes from the battlefield hospital that he had mostly been able to suppress over the past two years resurging in his mind. He stared at the building, unseeing, until a voice broke him out of his memories.

"Maybe you should try something else."

John chuckled and muttered softly in reply. "I'm fine, Sherlock. Just...threw me off a bit." He straightened his shoulders and walked into the hospital. The A&E was surprisingly busy for the time of day and eventually John was able to pin down a harried nurse long enough to ask for directions to the administrator's office. She pointed to the lift.

"Third floor, second hallway on your right, first door on the left."

"Thank you."

She gave him a distracted wave and hurried off. John watched her leave with a little more attention than necessary and he heard a chuckle.

"Looking for the next ex-girlfriend, John?"

"Shut up," he snapped as he pulled his attention from the departing nurse and stalked off to the lift. There were several other people inside when the doors opened and John silently joined them, hoping Sherlock would keep his thoughts to himself. Luckily his companion remained silent and soon John was stepping into the Administrator's office where he was greeted by an obviously very stressed assistant.

"May I help you?" she asked between the ringing of the phone and quickly placing the person on the other end on hold.

"My name is Dr. John Watson. I'd like to speak to Dr. Albright."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"Sorry, no."

"Well I'm afraid he's very busy at the moment. We're in a bit of a staffing crisis."

"Well, then he'll probably want to see me. I'm looking for a job." He handed her a copy of his CV which she scanned quickly, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise. She looked up to study him for a moment before rising from her seat.

"Just a moment." She knocked on the door to the office beyond and quickly slipped inside. Less than a minute later she emerged and beckoned to him. "Dr. Albright will see you now."

"Thank you...I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name?"

"Mary."

"Thank you, Mary." He gave her his most charming smile-which she returned with a grin-and stepped through the open doorway. A harried-looking middle aged man was standing behind a desk piled with paperwork and the man held out his hand for John to shake.

"Dr. Watson. Good to meet you. I understand you're seeking employment?"

"I am."

"Are your certifications current?"

"Yes, sir."

"And I see from your CV that you have extensive experience in trauma medicine. You wish to work in A&E?"

"If that's what is available, yes."

"And are you prepared to re-enter a such high-stress situation?"

"Yes, sir."

"Splendid. You're hired. We just lost two of our senior doctors and we're swamped. When can you start?"

"Well, as soon as possible."

"Good. See Mary about filling out the proper forms and report to Dr. Mahler downstairs. She'll be delighted to see you. It's been a madhouse down there today."

"Uh, OK, but I'm afraid I haven't the proper attire with me-"

"Someone will find you a set. Acceptable?"

"Yes, of course."

Albright offered his hand again, which John shook, feeling a bit shell-shocked. "Welcome aboard."

John nodded and backed out of the room. He turned to find Mary holding out a stack of forms and a pen.

"Thanks. Where should I…?" She pointed to a chair and handed him a clipboard, which he used as a writing surface and began hastily filling out the forms. Once he was finished he handed the stack back to her. "Where would I find Dr. Mahler?"

"A&E, downstairs. She's been in the thick of things, so be prepared for that."

"Right. Thank you."

She smiled. "I.D. processing is two doors down. Good luck."

He followed her instructions and soon had a new laminated card with his picture that still smelled faintly of melted plastic. He headed back to the lift and let out a soft sigh of relief when he saw it was empty before stepping inside. After the doors closed he wasn't surprised to hear Sherlock's voice.

"Are you sure this is what you want, John? It seems like it might be...a bit too much."

"I'll be fine, but thank you for your concern."

"I meant it might take too much time from our search for Moriarty."

John snorted. "I don't think you have to worry about that. I'll manage."

"Right." Sherlock was silent for a moment before John heard his voice again. "And this job won't be too much like...Afghanistan?"

"Central London is hardly a war zone."

"You might be surprised."

Before John could respond the lift reached its destination and he stepped out, moving quickly through the chaos of the A&E before he found a dark-haired doctor wearing a name tag the identified her as the person he was seeking.

"Dr. Mahler?"

She turned to him with a look of annoyance on her thin face. "Sorry, you'll have to go back to the waiting room, this section is for-"

"Dr. Watson." He held up his new I.D. card. "Dr. Albright just hired me."

"Great, fantastic. I'm sorry I don't have time for orientation right now, but-"

"I'm ready to work. As soon as I can get changed into scrubs."

A hint of a smile crossed her face. "Well alright, then." She pointed towards a door a few yards away. "Locker room. There's a few spares on the first shelf on your right." Someone called her name and she hurried off so John headed to the locker room.

"Might have been a good idea to ask why they lost the last two doctors," Sherlock remarked as John found a set of scrubs in his size.

"I'll worry about that later. Might be a good time for you to...otherwise entertain yourself. I'll be back at Baker Street when this shift is over."

"Very well." A pause. "Good luck, John."

"Thanks."

He quickly changed into the scrubs and found a spare lab coat, to which he fastened his I.D. tag and headed towards the A&E.

Ten hours later he was back in the locker room, a towel around his waist and leaning against his locker, exhausted. He'd been too busy to even think about anything except the patients that crossed his path for the last few hours and it had almost been a relief. The pain that had constricted his chest for days had lessened and he could finally see a future beyond that horrible day back at St. Bart's. He wasn't there completely, not yet, but he was starting to take the first steps towards regaining a normal life...or as normal as his life could be.

After changing back into his street clothes and confirming his next shift with the staff he started making his way back to Baker Street. He found a small cafe that was still open and grabbed a cup of coffee to keep him awake on the Tube ride home, noting that it seemed to be a popular place for those either starting or ending their shifts. He nodded at a couple of vaguely familiar patrons before he left, wondering if he'd actually get a chance to know them in the coming days. The idea of having colleagues again was not as odd as he had expected.

Finally he made it back to his flat and collapsed in his chair. He knew he should really go to bed but he was really too tired to even move at this point. He had forgotten just how exhausting emergency department work could be.

John leaned his head back against the chair and closed his eyes. _Just a few minutes_ , he promised himself, _and then I'll go to bed. Next shift's in ten hours. Better get caught up..._

"John!"

"Christ!" John exclaimed as he leaped from his seat. "A warning, Sherlock. Give me a bloody warning!"

"How am I supposed to do that?"

"Don't...just don't shout the first time, OK?"

"Fine. Sorry. _Again."_

"It's alright. I needed to go to bed anyway."

"But you can't, John. I've found us a case!"

"A case? You've _got_ to be kidding. I'm going to bed. It can wait until morning." John could almost picture Sherlock's pouting expression in the ensuing silence and barely managed to suppress a smile. "Is that what you spent today doing? Wait, who am I kidding? Of course it was." He rubbed a rough hand over his eyes. "What sort of case?"

"Murder, John," Sherlock replied, the excitement clear in his voice. "Serial murder."

TBC…


End file.
